


Questionable Decisions and Those Who Make Them

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Conversations, Clothing Kink, Dorks in Love, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras really only meant to wear Grantaire's forgotten hoodie for a few minutes. He's not entirely sure how he ends up sprawled on the bed making very ill-advised (but hot) decisions. And that makes it all the more awkward when R shows up looking for his sweatshirt during a thunderstorm. Oh dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questionable Decisions and Those Who Make Them

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer.
> 
> So, [deadpokerface](http://www.deadpokerface.tumblr.com) drew [this very NSFW picture](http://www.deadpokerface.tumblr.com/post/86536750770/another-porn-doodle-ts-ts-what-are-your-hands) based on some ideas she had the day before. I maybe got permission to write accompanying fic and ran with it.
> 
> Warning for jerking off while wearing someone else's clothes? Let me know if I missed anything I ought to warn for.
> 
> Also this isn't my usual forte (though there is some using of words and a probably sickening amount of fluff, considering), so hopefully this works out alright.

It's only as Enjolras is showing Bahorel and Feuilly out the door, everyone else having left the low key, informal meeting in his apartment already, that he notices the usual detritus littering his living room. Most of it is nothing important - one of Combeferre's three pocket sized novels that he reads when there's nothing else going on, Jehan's pocket flashlight that had been borrowed by Courfeyrac in an ineffectual attempt at a laser pointer, one of Bossuet's handkerchiefs. And, when he looks around again, one of Grantaire's hoodies - a green that always seemed to flatter him with its olive undertones.

Enjolras piles the rest of them on the coffee table and goes to fold the sweater carefully, to bring it along to the Musain the next evening. It's surprisingly soft under his hands, well worn - one of Grantaire's favorites, one that shows up at least once a week, washed to the point that it's almost ridiculously supple. It looks warm. And it smells like Grantaire, the blend of familiar scents, he notices as he absently pulls a few dark, curling hairs from the fabric.

Without the others there, his flat is suddenly cold, the paneled windows not doing much to keep out the cool night air, and Enjolras is only wearing a t-shirt. It wouldn't hurt, he tries to convince himself. It's only that it's convenient, and here. And Grantaire is the first person to strip off his jacket and offer it to someone else.

But it's not his hoodie, and he hasn't asked for permission. But it's not like it won't smell like his flat anyway, after being here all night, and it's just that much closer than getting one of his own. Enjolras shrugs into it before he can decide against it again, zipping it up.

And even though it's been sitting there, it's already warm, soft and gentle against his skin. It's no wonder that it's one of Grantaire's favorites, and he can't help but snuggle into it a little more. He's taller than Grantaire, but thinner, lanky rather than stocky, and it's baggy on him, wide and loose, and the sleeves come down far enough to edge over his wrists and the palms of his hands. On a whim, he flips the hood up over his mess of blond curls and sighs contentedly.

He really shouldn't be wearing this. He shouldn't borrow people's clothes without their permission, especially not when it's Grantaire, who's not the most comfortable with him anyway. It's not like Grantaire is his boyfriend, though the thought sends a delighted twist through his stomach and his spine. There's no reason for Enjolras to be wanting to wear this hoodie this badly.

But it's not like he can return it until tomorrow, anyway, and Grantaire is probably nearly home anyway. No, he'll just leave it on while he cleans up, and then he can return it tomorrow evening, and it will be alright. He pushes the sleeves up, the soft fabric dragging over his skin, and tips the hood back down, picking things up and cleaning up the few dishes that are left to do.

This is quite possibly the most comfortable hoodie that Enjolras has ever worn, and it's not even entirely because it's Grantaire's. He tries to convince himself this is the same as winding up with one of Courfeyrac's nearly threadbare t-shirts with a ridiculous pun across the chest or the scarf that it’s not like Combeferre even really liked, but it's different and he knows it. It's causing little shivers to run up his spine, just because he knows it's Grantaire's. That doesn't change the fact that it's ridiculously comfortable and warm and he cuddles into it a little more.

The movement nearly buries his face in the folds of the hood, and it smells just like Grantaire. A little like pencil shavings, a little like smoke, a little like the acerbic tang of paints, a little like whatever soap and shampoo he uses, all under the smell of laundry detergent. Enjolras nuzzles into the soft fabric a little, embarrassed, and tugs the sleeves down over his hands.

He tries not to think about Grantaire wrapping warm, strong arms around him, about how much warmer the hoodie would be if Grantaire had been wearing it first. He tries not to think about smelling like Grantaire while the man nosed under his jaw and pressed kisses to his pulse, tugging Enjolras down into his lap and fuck, fuck, he shouldn't be thinking this. He should stop.

Right. Enjolras is going to go and get dressed for bed, and take Grantaire's hoodie off and leave it folded on the table like a normal, not-creepy person without boundary issues, and then he's going to stop thinking about this and go to _sleep_. That's a good plan, a solid plan, a logical plan. Even if the hoodie is warm against the goosebumps on his skin.

He locks the door and heads back to his room, stripping off his jeans and pausing to empty his pockets and throw them in the laundry hamper, underwear following a moment later. He’s nearly convinced himself to strip the hoodie off when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, the sweatshirt just barely covering him, highlighting the curve of his pale, freckled thighs. That should not be so hot. He feels really, _really_ bad about thinking that’s hot.

And normally he doesn’t pay much attention to his own body, though he’s aware that he fits in traditional paradigms of attractiveness, but there’s something about the way he looks, standing there in Grantaire’s hoodie and not much else, the way it hangs off his shoulders and brushes against him that sends a curl of heat straight down to his cock, stirring between his legs.

Enjolras really shouldn’t be thinking about this, shouldn’t be getting this turned just by a _sweater_ , for goodness’ sakes. But he is. He reluctantly takes it off, strips off his shirt, and sits on the edge of the bed to brush his hair out of the tight braid it’s been in all day. It’s cold, though, and the hoodie is sitting _right there_. Face faintly flushed, still far too turned on, Enjolras slips back into the hoodie.

It seems even bigger on him now that it’s unzipped, baggy and warm and comfortable and _Grantaire’s_. He shouldn’t be doing this. He is going to feel so guilty in the morning, in a few minutes, because _this is not his hoodie and Grantaire is not his boyfriend_. Still, that doesn’t stop him from slipping a hand down, biting his lower lip to stifle a moan when his fingers trail over the heated skin of his erection, eyes slipping shut.

That doesn’t help, only makes him focus more on the smell of Grantaire and the feel of the cotton brushing against his skin. He falls back on the bed, shifting until his head is on the pillow, both hands sliding down between his spread legs, stroking slowly. Fumbling with one hand, he manages to open the drawer on the nightstand, one of the few organized drawers he has, and finds the tube of lube, taking just enough to slick his hand. His free hand stays between his legs, long fingers smoothing over the silky, delicate skin of his inner thighs, stroking along the crease that always makes his breath hitch, the other wrapping around his cock, taking up a slow, steady rhythm.

He wonders if Grantaire has ever done this while wearing this hoodie, stroked himself off the way Enjolras is right now. Oh _fuck_ that is a gorgeous mental image, Grantaire all sprawled out with half lidded eyes and his lower lip bitten full and red, hand lazily curling around himself, and Enjolras can feel the flush in his cheeks spreading down his neck and his chest. He twists his hand just right on the upstroke and chokes down a needy sound, closing his eyes harder and turning his face, nuzzling into the hood of the green fabric, and it goes straight through him, need coiling and curling low in his stomach.

The slide of worn cotton is too much and he shudders, hips arching up helplessly. And he knows they aren’t together but he wonders, if they were, what Grantaire might think, seeing him like this, what look it would put on his face. What would it do to him to be wearing the sweater and to know that Enjolras had jerked off helplessly while wearing it, if it would make his face flush, make him bite down on his lip, or if he would just give him a low, heated look that would send another shock of heat straight through him, and oh, oh, he likes that thought more than he should, the idea of seeing Grantaire wearing this hoodie and knowing that he’s _done this_.

Enjolras’ hand stripes desperately, achingly fast over himself now, hot and hard and fast and _needy_ , and he whimpers helplessly, teeth catching and closing on the seam of the hood so he doesn’t get too loud and fuck why is this so _hot_. He’s so close, so _close_ , his free hand curling and clenching tightly on his pale thigh, hard enough to bruise, and the sleeve of the hoodie is slipping down over his hand again and he’s _jerking off in Grantaire’s hoodie_ and fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ that’s enough to send him over the edge, hips arching, back tensing, jaw clenching to hold back a keening, whining cry as he comes.

Panting, he comes down a few moments later, suddenly lazy and languid as he sprawls back on the bed, hair spilling over the pillow, face warm and each breath dragging deep as he lets out a hazy hum of contentment. It takes him a moment to look down and then. Oh. Oh dear, this is very much not good, because that is _definitely_ all over the sleeve of Grantaire’s hoodie and not his stomach and that _is very much noticeable_.

Okay. Okay. Enjolras can just wash the hoodie, this will be fine, and Grantaire will never know, because he really, really shouldn’t have done this. Guilt settles in, but he resolutely ignores it for the moment. It will be fine, he can just wash it out. Except for the fact that Grantaire is undoubtedly going to notice the fact that it’s been washed, and he’s always so sensitive to what Enjolras says to him, he’s likely to interpret it as a slight in some way or another.

He might even think that Enjolras thought it was dirty beforehand, and he’s been trying so _hard_ not to be so harsh and cruel, and they haven’t clashed over class based differences in nearly two weeks. It’s possible he wouldn’t take it that way, and Enjolras is maybe being a little too concerned, but he _might_. He definitely shouldn’t have given into temptation in the first place.

And then there’s a knock on the door. It’s late, no one should be here, but that is undoubtedly a knock on the door. It’s probably Combeferre or Courfeyrac, and Enjolras’ last fragile shreds of dignity are going to be completely gone if they see him in Grantaire’s hoodie. They already give him _looks_ , and Combeferre has taken to arching one eyebrow at him so _dryly_ lately, Enjolras doesn’t need that on top of everything.

Calling that he’ll just be a moment, Enjolras sits up, shedding the hoodie on the bed with a wince and tugging on his jeans, which chafe uncomfortably, but it’s only for a minute, and a shirt. His hair is an undignified mane around his face, but it’s presentable enough to cross over and open the door, hoping the flush on his face has died down enough that it’s not noticeable.

Except that it’s Grantaire on the other side of the door, slouched down in his usual bad posture, his hands in his pockets and his eyes not quite meeting Enjolras’ as he rubs the back of his head, mussing up his dark curls. “Um, hey. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to bug you, but I think I left my hoodie here?”

He winces a little, look apologetic, and Enjolras wonders how he ever could have thought that Grantaire had no respect or concern for other people’s time or space.

“I hate to disturb you, but I didn’t want you to have to bring it tomorrow, or anything,” he continues, looking down. “I mean, I was only halfway home, so it wasn’t any trouble to come back. It looks like you were getting ready for bed though, so, shit, sorry, I should have texted. Can I just grab that and get out of your hair?”

Enjolras doesn’t quite panic, scrabbling for something to say, something to excuse the fact that he can’t return Grantaire’s hoodie, still crumpled on his bed and stained with his come.

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to, and it comes out severer than it should, and he can _see_ Grantaire flinch back just a little, just enough that his brows draw together, and his eyes are so open for a moment that Enjolras can see the flash of shame and hurt. Fuck. “No, I mean, you can’t have it right now, I apologize.”

Now he just looks confused, head tipping to the side a bit as he arches a brow, maybe a little concerned. “Wait, what? Why not? I mean, I’m sorry for interrupting, but -”

Never again is Enjolras doing something as ill advised as masturbating in someone else’s clothes. That was a terrible idea, and he feels himself starting to go red again, and tries to salvage what’s left of his composure, sure Grantaire can tell something’s off. It seems like he manage to lose the cool self-control that makes people listen somewhere in the last hour or so.

“Because…” he flounders for a moment, look going serious as he tries to hide his flailing for an excuse. “Because I spilled something on it. Coffee. I spilled coffee on your hoodie, and I apologize sincerely for not telling you before. But I promise that I’ll wash it, and get the stain out, and I’ll return it to you tomorrow at the meeting. I apologize for not taking better care for your things, it was remiss of me.”

Grantaire just shakes his head, eyes a little wide, looking up at Enjolras and, strangely, blushing a little. “Oh, man, no, no, really don’t worry about it! You don’t have to go to all that trouble, I need to wash it anyway. Don’t worry about it, I don’t want you to trouble yourself, please, Enjolras.”

He shakes his head, trying for poise and serene assurance rather than desperate awkwardness. “No, really, Grantaire, I insist. It was my fault, and it’s no trouble at all. I really do, please?”

There’s a moment where he seems to hesitate before he smiles, oddly shy, mismatched eyes lighting up a bit.

“Alright,” he says slowly, and Enjolras could breathe a sigh of relief. “If you insist. But thank you, seriously. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Enjolras assures, much more composed now that he’s talked his way out of it. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire says, his grin earnest and improbably charming. He starts to make his farewells when a sudden crack of thunder shudders through the air like cannon fire, strong enough to make Enjolras’ windows quiver, and Grantaire startles, spine shooting straight as his eyes go wide, and the rain comes in out of nowhere, drumming down on the roofs and tattooing a staccato beat on the buildings, falling in sheets. Grantaire’s voice, for once, holds a faint, stressed quiver, eyes dark and apologetic now, regretful and gentle. “Oh, um, shit. I, uh, I actually really, really don’t like thunderstorms, would you mind if I…? I mean, I hate to impose, but I’ll be out the minute it’s over, I swear, it’s just-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, with faint, fond exasperation, opening the door wider, wanting to erase that spooked, agitated look from his face. “It’s _torrential_ out there, come inside. If you tried to walk home, you’d be soaked through in a moment.”

Grantaire’s look softens, surprised, but he certainly doesn’t seem tense about it, only shyly stepping inside as though he doesn’t want to invade Enjolras’ space. “Thank you, Enjolras. I owe you one. Like a lot.”

He shakes his head, ushering him in further. “Ah, as you might have noticed, I’m not the best host, but feel free to sit. I could make you some tea or-”

As he’s offering, he sees Grantaire glance over toward and through the open bedroom door and pause. And _fuck_ , because Enjolras can see it even from here, Grantaire’s hoodie scrunched up on the bed in stark contrast to his sheets, and he can see Grantaire’s double take and incredulous look.

Enjolras’ plans are going nowhere near expected tonight, and he really, really wished he’d been rude enough to just not answer the door in the first place, had pretended to be asleep or in the shower or _something_. Or at least that he’d hidden the hoodie rather than leaving it on the bed, because now Grantaire is looking at him, bewildered and unsure.

Mortified, Enjolras stares back at him, blue eyes wide and suddenly acutely aware of ever rumple in his clothes and the puffy mess of his curls, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks as he turns bright red. “I… can explain.”

Grantaire looks perplexed for a moment, and then, something Enjolras can’t read crossing his features he smiles, somewhere between amused and brittle. “Oh, go on, I’m listening.”

Enjolras blushes even darker, trying to think of anything other than the truth, but he’s never been good at that, and he draws himself up as best he can, stiff, though he doesn’t bother brushing his curls back from his face and he _knows_ he can’t be taken seriously when he’s blushing so much.

“I…” he falters. “I have to apologize. I....”

He pauses, grasping for the right words, flustered and embarrassed, and folds his hands together tightly in front of him. He decides to just get it over with, unable to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“Well. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I… truthfully, I have feelings for you. And I just… it looked warm, when I noticed you’d left it, and I was wearing it, which now sounds _incredibly_ unethical, I can’t apologize enough, and... I wasn’t lying, it is stained, just not…” Enjolras doesn’t think he can turn any darker red at this point, tempted to bury his face in his hands, because dear _god_ this is horrifying, but he peeks uncertainly at Grantaire.

Grantaire stares at him, turning slowly red, mouth dropping open, stunned. “You…? Are you saying that you were wearing…? While you were…?”

Enjolras looks down and away, nodding once, knuckles nearly white from how tightly he’s clasping his hands. “… It was... incredibly inappropriate of me.”

“… That is so hot,” Grantaire says, dazed, blushing darker, gaping at Enjolras. “Oh my god, why is that so hot. I… you… you’re… _me_?”

He really doesn’t know what to do with that, feeling a tentative relief and another sting of arousal at the fact Grantaire finds it _hot_ , mostly still embarrassed and uncertain, never liking to be so vulnerable in front of someone else. “Ah. As I said, I have feelings for you, and have for a while. I hope it’s not too uncomfortable after this, though I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t be, but…”

But Grantaire doesn’t look repulsed or furious, he just turns deeper red and stares at Enjolras like he’s strung the stars in the sky, a hopeful, amazed look dawning in his expressive eyes, and then he smiles, bashful, and looks down. “Um. I’m not entirely sure how you missed it, but I have feelings for you? I have a lot of feelings for you, actually. I just never thought you would… not that you necessarily want to act on them just because… I mean… Wow, this is _really_ awkward, and I am kind of speechless right now, you’ve broken my brain.”

“You… have feelings for me? I thought… nevermind that, that is to say, would you like to maybe go on a date, at some point?” Enjolras asks before he can stop himself, uncharacteristically uncertain as his blush comes back in full force, looking back at Grantaire. “That is, if I haven’t ruined everything with, um, with my incredibly ill-advised actions.”

Worst. Idea. Ever. No matter how hot it was. No matter that it has, in a very roundabout way, led to the revelation that _Grantaire has feelings for him too_.

Grantaire finally breaks out of his unreadable, cautious silence and laughs, but it’s not cruel, smiling bright enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, the look on his face self conscious and sweet, just this side of adoring as he seems to realize that Enjolras isn’t teasing him. “Wash my hoodie and we’ll call it good. I should probably be less okay with that than I am but I don’t even care right now. Wow. Oh! Oh, I actually didn’t answer you? Yes. The answer to that is yes.”

Enjolras smiles, soft but earnest, unable to help it, and he should be ashamed and repentant but he can’t help it, because he is fairly sure he isn’t hallucinating the fact that Grantaire just said yes, and oh, things actually make a lot more sense now, ducking his head a little as his blush fades a touch. “Thank you.”

“Thank _y_ -” Grantaire starts, cutting off when another strike of thunder rattles the building, making him jolt briefly and curse under his breath, suddenly reminded of the reason he came in originally.

And he’s probably pushing his luck, but Enjolras bites his lip anyway, and asks, “Do you want to just stay the night? The bed’s plenty large, and you don’t have to do anything, but I’d like your company, if you were comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” he says, steadier than before. “Given everything, I am guessing you have no problem with the idea of kissing, but I’d really like to, if that’s okay, I mean, if you want.”

He does want, nodding once before moving forward, one hand curling on Grantaire’s shoulder as he presses in to kiss him, soft and chaste at first but determined and wanting. And, oh, his mouth is warm, and soft, and he kisses Enjolras back, calloused, clever hand curling around the back of his neck to draw him a little closer, and Enjolras _melts_ , letting out an embarrassing happy little noise, because this is more than he ever could have wanted.

“Hey,” Grantaire says when they break apart, blushing and looking up at him with a tender, awed expression.

“Hi,” Enjolras replies, flushing as well, sure it’s enough to bring out every freckle scattered over his nose and cheeks.

For some reason, that makes Grantaire laugh, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose, thumb smoothing along the line of Enjolras’ hair, touch warm. Blush deepening, Enjolras ducks down, hiding his face against Grantaire’s shoulder, smiling helplessly.

He only shifts when there’s another low rumble of thunder, the rain still pounding against the windows with no signs of easing, and leads Grantaire back to his bedroom, turning sheepish again as he snatches the hoodie off the bed and goes to try to do _something_ about it before it can stain too badly, especially since the blush has risen in Grantaire’s cheeks again as he blinks at it.

Still a little red in the face, he returns to find Grantaire only in his boxers and t-shirt and that’s enough to have him staring, struck with the urge to press him back against the covers and outline every muscle and scar and mark with his mouth, thoroughly. Tomorrow, Enjolras reminds himself firmly, because he’s embarrassed himself for one night, stripping his jeans back off and turning even darker red at Grantaire’s choked sound as he reaches for a pair of boxers, t-shirt going back into the pile of laundry.

And even though Grantaire’s right here, Enjolras almost wishes that he still had the hoodie to cuddle into, soft and warm and comfortable, because there’s just something about it, and Enjolras is really going to have to think about this more.

“Oh, fine,” Grantaire mumbles, seeming to guess at his expression, tugging off his shirt and tossing it to Enjolras. He really should be more embarrassed about this, but then, he got caught having jerking off (accidently) on the other man’s sweatshirt, and so he doesn’t protest or fluster, just pulls on the shirt and tugs his hair free of the collar.

It’s a similar soft cotton, and it smells even more like Grantaire and is too baggy in the shoulders, loose on Enjolras’ lean frame. It’s perfect, and he settles into it more, satisfied. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Grantaire says, watching him with a look in his eyes that suggests he’ll be fully on board for Enjolras’ plans to map out the sensitive places on his body in the morning, and will happily be doing much the same, but that’s affectionate all the same. “Fuck, you’re cute.”

“If I’m so cute,” Enjolras informs him dryly, “you should get on the bed and cuddle me and give me more kisses.”

He chuckles at that, low and happy. “Oh, well, if that’s the case, how could I refuse you?”

Heady, Enjolras smiles at him again, coaxing him into the bed and under the covers, snuggling in close and curling up around him, the two of them taking a few moments to negotiate something of a comfortable position. He sighs, content, and continues smiling, unable to look away, captivated utterly.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to be able to stop either, tentatively reaching up to thread his fingers into Enjolras’ curls, waiting for permission first, and then leans in to kiss him, and Enjolras sighs into it, almost shyly searching for Grantaire’s free hand, twining their fingers.

“We should probably talk about all of this,” he says, before stealing another soft, languishing kiss, uncaring of the awkward and unfamiliar angles they keep meeting at because they’re _kissing_.

“We are definitely talking about all of this, in so many ways,” Grantaire agrees, blushing deeply when Enjolras hesitantly rests their foreheads together. “But I am totally okay with cuddling and kisses right now.”

“Good,” Enjolras says, because they _really_ need to talk about all of this but that can wait until the morning, finally relaxing back into the easy, sleepy contentment of earlier, nuzzling closer still to Grantaire, too drowsy and pleased to be embarrassed and well aware of the fact he’ll be entirely wrapped around him by the time they fall asleep, drawing his fingers up and down the line of Grantaire’s spine, which seems to settle him against the next surge of thunder. When Grantaire squeezes his hand, he presses back, warm happiness rising up in his chest as they huddle together under the comforter, trading sweet, lingering kisses, sleepy and warm as they slowly feel one another out, and this, this is worth all of the humiliation and embarrassment of before.


End file.
